


To the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach

by R00bs_Teacup



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Fluff, Romance, Weddings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-31
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-17 10:37:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,869
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5866189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/R00bs_Teacup/pseuds/R00bs_Teacup
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>d'Artagnan and Constance are getting married, and d'Artagnan needs to write his vows. They get interrupted, and what is it Constance has been keeping secret?</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach

**Author's Note:**

> I have no idea what happened. I don't know if I've ever written about straight people before. This is new for me. I hope I write them right! Okay, I really don't know what this is. I just was drawing Tamla Kari's lovely face and got excited, and Dudamel was conduction Dvorak symphony nine fourth movement and I got a bit more excited plus coffeeeeeee! wheee! Caffeine buzz is fun. I don't think d'Artagnan ever gets a first name, but I call 'im Charlie, because... I dunno. I just do.

_I know the shapes and planes of your face, the way you round for a smile and slacked with tiredness, the way you curve when you see me, the way your skin warms beneath my palm. I know the way your lips tilt when I touch, then gentle, soft, dive to smile with a roll. I know your blush, lashes like sparrows on a wire, a quick breeze lifting you up to see me, to look at me, to look into me and see and know and stir and dream. I know the colours, meeting and blending and fading and brightening, weaving into you blue and brown and red-gold. I know the loops and swift waves of your hair, the turn and twist of it, the brush of it, the depth of it. I know the depth of your eyes, know how to turn your head just so to hold you just so to look into. I know where my thumb needs to sit on your chin so that I may see you, that I may_ see _you. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me._

 

“d'Artagnan, have you seen my hairbrush?”

 

_I hear your voice when you're not here. The notes that make it up. The summer sunshine over the wet damp of autumn leaves, the deep fire tamped down but gloriously there when you call me. Glorious rich depth when you say my name late at night. Whisper soft combs of sound enclosing me with your lips when we love one another. Dark chocolate when you laugh, sharp orange when you berate. I can taste and feel your voice about me. I can smell the river and grass and drying rain of the summer in you, always around me. I can hear the swelling ocean when you find something beautiful._

 

“d'Artagnan! Hairbrush!”

 

_I meet you over and over, each time anew, each time thinking I know everything and each time finding you. Over and over again I find you and more of you and more of you. You encompass me, fill my head with all the things I need in order to see you, all of you. You hold me close and surround me, all of you wrapping in great layers and swathes, cradling me and rocking me. I learn to see more and more and more, like the nuances and shades of blue between ocean and sky. I lie between your thighs and breathe you, learning every inch. I know the crease of you, but there's always a new expanse, a new curve, a new edge to find._

 

“Charles, if you don't put down that pen and help me find my hairbrush, so help me God, I will march across the hall and tell Porthos you're falling down in your duty of care to me. You know what 'e's like, 'e'll come and-”

 

“It's on the side in the kitchen, by the bread bin.”

 

“Was that so hard?”

 

_Your fingers know the spider web connecting me to my skin. You know where to run them to bring me back from my day dreams, know how to call me back and tether me. Long, elegant fingers._

 

“Damn it. I was on a roll, now I'm just writing crap.”

 

d'Artagnan throws down his notebook and flings himself from the armchair, bouncing through to the kitchen. Constance is in the doorway at the other end, just in the hallway, brushing her hair. d'Artagnan goes to wrap his arms around her, pressing his face into her hair and her neck, breathing her in.

 

“Oi,” Constance says. “Busy, here.”

 

“Your fault. You broke my concentration.”

 

“You know we're getting married on Friday, right? You'll have to just fish one of your attempts out of the rubbish and uncrinkle it and work it up into something.”

 

“Why must we write our own vows? I just want to say I love you, isn't that enough?”

 

“Say it, then.”

 

“I love you,” d'Artagnan says, nuzzling, meaning it. “I love all of you. Every single inch.”

 

He moves his hands so they're over her breasts, to make her laugh and lean into him. So he can have a warm, happy armful of her. She does laugh and lean. She sends a sharp thrill through him and he lifts her, spinning.

 

“Charlie!” She cries, laughing, his name falling easily, easily.

 

No one calls him Charlie any more. No one. He sets her down and turns her in his arms, kissing her and kissing her until she cups his face and holds his head and tangles her fingers in his hair and cradles him close, kissing and kissing until they're out of breath.

 

“Someone's at the door,” Constance says.

 

“I didn't hear anything.”

 

He hears the doorbell, the bright 'ding ding dong ding' breaking his mood. He tugs Constance after him down the hall, and throws the door open. Porthos blinks at them, and they blink back: there's an absolutely huge bouquet of flowers obscuring half of Porthos.

 

“Hello,” d'Artagnan says.

 

“Flowers,” Porthos growls, holding them out, shaking them until d'Artagnan takes them, then pointing to Constance.

 

d'Artagnan, well versed in the language of Porthos, hands her the bouquet.

 

“For you,” d'Artagnan says.

 

Porthos nods in approval.

 

“From who?” Constance asks. “From you? Why? They're incredible. Are these irises?”

 

“An' golden rod, and asters, and hocks,” Porthos says. “From Athos's garden.”

 

“Does he have any flowers left?” d'Artagnan asks. “Why are we drowning Constance in flowers?”

 

“Congratulatory,” Porthos says, biting his lip, eyes skittering everywhere.

 

“You are completely hopeless, Porthos,” Constance says, mangling his name in her habitual way, forgetting the French they've taught her to imitate and pronouncing the 'th' instead of just the 't' again. “For the _wedding_ I assume? Not just on making it through another week?”

 

Her words are heavy with meaning, and d'Artagnan isn't stupid. Porthos scratches his head and looks sheepish, and okay, so d'Artagnan probably wouldn't have noticed much if Porthos hadn't reacted and been Porthos.

 

“Yeah, right,” Porthos says, being Porthos. “The weddin'. Of course. Oops.”

 

“Smoothe,” Constance says. “Never mind, come here. Thank you.”

 

Porthos squeezes past d'Artagnan and kisses Constance's cheek. She hugs him, but it's only half because the flowers are in the way.

 

“I'd invite you in for coffee,” d'Artagnan says. “But I want to question Connie on just what it is she deserves congratulations on, and why it's a secret from _me_ but not from _you_.”

 

“It is a secret from Porthos,” Constance says. “He's just brighter'n you.”

 

Porthos beams, proud as punch. d'Artagnan scowls at him, which makes Porthos's eyes crinkle up at the corners. d'Artagnan braces himself, and sure enough he's reeled into a Porthos Special- the kind of bear hug that turns you weak at the knees and makes you feel so warm and happy and loved that you consider marrying Porthos instead of Constance. Just for a moment.

 

“Are we doing visiting?” Athos asks, dry and turning the last word into something unpleasant.

 

d'Artagnan manages to turn his head enough to see Athos standing in the doorway, hands in his pockets. d'Artagnan tries to waves, but he's a bit stuck and it's more of a hand flop. Athos nods in greeting, eyes never leaving Porthos.

 

“I think d'Artagnan is kickin' me out,” Porthos says. “But Constance might persuade him to let me stay.”

 

“Nope,” Constance says. “You dropped me in it.”

 

“Only accidentally,” Porthos says. “They have cake here, Athos. I wanted to stay.”

 

“I'll buy you cake,” Athos says. “If you like.”

 

Porthos finally lets go of d'Artagnan and squeezes back past, tucking himself in against Athos's side. Porthos has a way of forgetting how much bigger he is than Athos, and acting as if they're the same size, which is quite frankly adorable. He's doing it now, frowning when he doesn't quite fit under Athos's shoulder.

 

“You'll really buy me cake?” Porthos checks.

 

“If you like,” Athos says, shrugging.

 

Porthos sighs, letting out a jaw-cracking yawn.

 

“Nap first,” he says, resting his head on Athos's shoulder, curling in on himself to fit there.

 

“Bye,” Athos says, turning to unlock Porthos's flat and guiding Porthos inside.

 

d'Artagnan shuts the door and turns to Constance. She shakes her head and marches to the kitchen, jabbering about vases and water. d'Artagnan follows, watching her set the flowers up on the counter. He waits patiently, and eventually she runs out of busy work and turns to face him.

 

“I was gonna tell you differently,” Constance says. “But, I suppose I'll just… spit it out. I'm pregnant.”

 

d'Artagnan, who'd been expecting some additional wedding news or something to do with Constance's family, is surprised enough that he nearly falls over- he notices an itch on one ankle and scratches it with the other foot, and slowly falls, only just catching himself.

 

“d'Artagnan?” Constance asks. “Are we glad, or not? Kids aren't planned for another few years, yet. You have to tell me if you're happy or not.”

 

“Happy? I dunno. I feel a bit sick. Is that happiness?”

 

“You look a bit green,” Constance agrees.

 

“Pregnant,” d'Artagnan says, and then, just to check, “with a baby?”

 

“No, with a dolphin, Charles.”

 

“A dolphin?”

 

“Of course with a baby!”

 

“A whole, entire baby. A child. My child? I'm the father?”

 

“Aramis is.”

 

d'Artagnan balks, then realises she's joking.

 

“Right. Of course I am. I'm going to have a baby? All of our very own?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Joy swells inside d'Artagnan, so much of it it makes him giddy. He laughs wildly and grabs Constance, hugging her.

 

“A baby! Us! Oh, wow! For our wedding! Connie! Connie! A baby!”

 

Constance laughs, relaxing in his arms. She pushes the hair off his face and kisses his nose, then presses their faces together, forehead and nose, pressing his cheeks.

 

“You're glad,” She says.

 

“I'm stunned. I'm ecstatic. I'm overjoyed! I'm brimming. Really? Darling? A baby?”

 

“Really.”

 

“Hang on. How come Porthos knew?”

 

“I haven't a clue. You know what he's like, though.”

 

“Pays attention to every detail, when it's someone he cares about. What a nuisance he is. But I'm pleased, because it means you told me. How long have you known?”

 

“For sure? Three weeks.”

 

“Three _weeks_?! Without telling me?!”

 

“I was scared that I'd lose it and it'd all be for nothing,” she says.

 

“Oh. Can that happen?”

 

“Yeah. I've got loads of stuff for you to read, all about how things are going to go.”

 

“I'll read every word.”

 

“Okay, but not until you're done with your vows.”

 

“Damn them.”

 

_Growing inside of you, new life, our life. I love you. I do. Every word of this is just to say 'I love you'. All these words, because love isn't simple, isn't just one thing. I love you and I have to resort to metaphors and similes to try and tell you how much. I said you were always showing me more about you, and now there's this. Our child, growing inside you, and I see that words don't even begin to scratch the surface of you. You're too big, too bright, too beautiful, for words to touch. So I love you, with every touch and every word and every moment that I am, I love you._


End file.
